


You Got Heart

by grilledcheesing



Category: Captain America (Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Spoilers, also the rest of the team is here i just didn't wanna spam the tags, there will be romance but only when it is LEGAL so expect a slow burn y'all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-06-10 13:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6959620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grilledcheesing/pseuds/grilledcheesing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter is determined to keep his identity a secret from the rest of the team, and Tony is happy to oblige. But as time goes by and he gets to know Steve not just as a masked teammate, but as Peter Parker, things start to get a little ... well, complicated. </p><p>Or: In the aftermath of Civil War, Tony Stark takes Spider-Man under his wing, and Steve Rogers takes Peter Parker under his. Eventual Peter/Steve. [This has been edited and updated per the Homecoming timeline.]</p><p>SPOILERS FOR SPIDER-MAN: HOMECOMING.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Excuse me — are you Peter Parker?”

 

Peter looks up from his calculus homework, at the tall, broad-shouldered, ridiculously symmetrical man staring down at him. He blinks.

 

“Yeah?”

 

The man takes a step back, blowing out an exasperated breath. “Of course,” he mutters.

 

Peter frowns up at him, feeling oddly self-conscious. But also, like. This is _his_ library. And this is kind of his little corner of it. Everybody in this dump knows that this is where Peter comes after school, and this is where he shoves his headphones into his ears and finishes his homework (no thanks to certain billionaires with agendas) and occasionally tries to study for tests (no thanks to, well, the entire criminal population of New York).

 

So really, he shouldn’t be intimidated by this giant wall of muscle staring down at him. That and, uh. Well. The super powers that he has. He supposes there’s that, too.

 

“Wait,” says Peter. “Do you know where Steve is? I was supposed to meet a guy named Steve, for the senior citizen outreach program — ”

 

“That’s it. I’m going to murder Tony.”

 

Peter feels his jaw click; it is only a moment of tension, but whoever this guy is, he doesn’t miss it.

 

“Wait,” says Peter, some synapse in his brain firing a couple dozen beats too late. “Do I know you?”

 

The man reluctantly holds his hand up for Peter to shake. “Steve Rogers,” he deadpans. “The senior citizen.”

 

Oh, shit. Oh, _shit_ . Peter’s jaw drops like a cartoon character’s. He stares at Steve Roger’s outstretched hand — _Captain America’s_ outstretched hand — and maybe stops breathing for like, half a second, because some irrational part of his brain is all _He remembers what happened in Germany and he’s going to kick my ass,_ and the semi-rational part of his brain is all _No, Captain America doesn’t kick people’s asses in public libraries_ , until finally some common sense kicks in and he remembers that the last time the two of them met, he was wearing a mask.

 

Still, he feels himself start to sweat. _Shake his hand, you moron_ , he says to himself.

 

“You’re … Peter Parker, then?” says Steve, his hand still outstretched in a manner that is, all things considered, far too forgiving.

 

“Yup, yes, uh, that’s me,” says Peter, taking Steve’s hand and shaking it with embarrassing enthusiasm. “And you’re, uh — not old.”

 

Steve actually cracks a smile. “Well. I suppose that’s up for interpretation.”

 

Peter laughs a little awkwardly, trying not to trip over his own two feet. “Um — so I — I mean, Mr. Stark said that uh, that teaching a senior citizen to use modern tech would be a good way to do my community service hours for school, but you, uh … you probably don’t need my help,” he says, with what intends to be a half-shrug but really comes out like a spasm.

 

To his surprise, Steve sits down, leveling him with a wry kind of grin. “How old are you anyway, kid?”

 

“Sixteen,” says Peter, a little defiantly. He looks away. “In a few months,” he adds quickly.

 

Steve laughs, loud enough that Peter can see the librarian raise her eyebrows at them from behind Steve’s head. “Okay, okay, sixteen in a few months,” he says. “Why the heck did Tony send me to you?”

 

Peter’s ears burn. It’s a valid question. Right up there with _Why the heck did I get these powers in the first place?_ and _Holy shit, did I really just fight half the Avengers a few weeks ago and go back to school like nothing happened?_ Peter is used to not being able to answer his own questions. Somebody else’s, though? That’s a whole new ballgame of awkward.

 

“Cuz I’m cheap,” says Peter, grinning.

 

“Ha! Fair enough,” says Steve, with a hearty, very Brooklyn-eqsue pat on the back that nearly knocks the wind out of him. “Tony told me all about your whole wunderkid schtick. Says he’s going to have you interning for him. That’s pretty impressive, at your age.”

 

Captain America thinks he’s impressive. “Naw, no, I just, uh — I like computers. And science, and stuff.”

 

Wowwwwwwww. No wonder Mr. Stark hasn’t let him train with any of the Avengers yet. He has the verbal prowess of a god damn sponge.

 

“Good,” says Steve, “because I missed a good seventy years of it.”

 

“Well, shit,” says Peter candidly, wincing when he realizes he just swore in front of, like, the human personification of the American flag and truth and justice and whatever else. “Uh … do you know where you wanna start?”

 

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Not a clue, kid. Not a clue.”

 

* * *

 

The tutoring session lasts for an hour. Peter tries to keep it professional, despite the fact that he said _shit_ in the first three minutes of meeting his idol and despite the fact that Steve has called him “kid” approximately 86 times. After the first twenty minutes or so Peter manages to stop stammering like a buffoon and even gets Steve passably competent on the workings of a DSLR camera. They take some terrible pictures of books and accidental pictures of the ends of the table and the floor and Steve’s chin, Peter neglecting to mention that he actually knows how to take _good_ pictures, because it seems kind of brag-y.

 

“How the hell did Tony find you, anyway?” Steve asks as they walk out of the library.

 

“Bargain bin,” Peter quips, hoisting his bag over his shoulder. “Nah, I, uh — applied for an internship?”

 

Jesus, he needs to take a theater or an improv class or _something_ if he is going to keep up with all these lies.

 

“So I’ll be seeing you in the tower?”

 

Peter coughs a bit, trying to hide his laugh. He doubts he’ll be invited to the tower anytime soon. Hell, he doesn’t even know if _Steve_ is invited to the tower anytime soon. The last he saw they all seemed pretty freaking pissed at each other, but _you are not supposed to know about, so shut your mouth_  he reminds himself just in time.

 

“That’d be — I mean, that’d be awesome, but I dunno,” he says, shrugging for what might be the millionth time that hour. He’s going to run out of shrugging muscles. Become the Hunch Spider of Notre Queens. “Maybe.”

 

Steve pulls out his phone and checks his messages, and Peter is relieved, at least, that someone has already taught him to do that. Peter waffles there awkwardly, wondering if this is Steve’s way of dismissing him. It’s funny how when they were all suited up he felt totally normal, maybe somewhere close to Steve’s level, but standing here on the curb with him he’s never felt more like some dumb little kid.

 

“So,” says Steve, pocketing the phone. “Same time next week?”

 

Peter blinks at him, unable to conceal his surprise. “Yeah,” he says, his face bursting out into an embarrassing grin. “Yeah, sure, sounds good.”

 

“See ya then, kid. Get home safe.”

 

Peter laughs a little under his breath. “You too.”

 

He watches Steve head toward the subway, feeling a little bit like the universe just smacked him on both sides of his face. He’s tutoring Captain Fucking America. Or, well, sort of. _Still_. Whatever the hell it is, he’s spending an entire uninterrupted hour with the most biggest legend in possibly forever once every _week_.

 

He hasn’t made it two steps away from the library when his phone starts to ring — not his phone, but the one Mr. Stark gave him. Peter nearly drops it in his haste to answer.

 

“ _Dude_ ,” is all that Peter manages when he picks up.  

 

A beat. “Let me get this straight: I can’t get you to stop calling me Mr. Stark, but you’ll call me dude?”

 

Peter’s entire face burns. “Ah, sorry, Mr. Stark — ”

 

“Call me Tony.”

 

Peter grins a bit, relaxing. “Sorry, dude.”

 

“Watch it, spider-punk.”

 

“Uh, so. Senior citizen, huh?”

 

He can practically hear Mr. Stark smirking on the other end of the line. “Did you get his autograph?”

 

Peter makes an indignant noise and says, “I’m not – pfft, I wouldn’t – I mean – ”

 

“Yeesh, kid, I’m insulted. Don’t tell me you like him better than me already.”

 

“Like that’s hard,” says Peter.

 

“Ouch. Hey, what are you doing tonight?”

 

“Uh,” says Peter, which roughly translates to _crawling around the city in the ridiculously tight spandex suit you had made for me, stealing bad guys’ guns and fucking up traffic patterns all over the city of New York?_

 

“The baddies can wait for a few hours. Meet me at the tower.”

 

Oh, _shit_.

 

“Uh,” he says again, because his brain might actually be made of jell-o.

 

“Don’t tell me you’ve got _homework_.”

 

“No, no,” says Peter, “I mean — well, yes, a ton actually, but that’s not what I … I just was wondering if I’m going as me, or as …”

 

“Suit up, kid. Training starts right now.”

 

His heart jumps so far into his throat that he feels like he’s going to throw it up, but in like, a really cool, holy-crap-is-this-really-happening way.

 

“Okay,” says Peter, already half-sprinting down the block to get home. “But, uh, Mr. Stark?”

 

“It’s Tony.”

 

“Er, yeah,” says Peter. “I just, uh — would it be cool if we — if the rest of the team doesn’t know who I am?”

 

There’s a beat, and a bit of a sigh. Peter is suddenly terrified that he’s going to say no and he’s going to lose this whole thing before it even begins. He want this, wants it like he’s some lame kid at the fringe of the cool kids’ table, and — well, okay, in real life he still _is_ the lame kid at the fringe of the cool kids’ table — but this is different. This is his chance to make a difference, a _real_ difference, not just whatever he can manage scraping by on an hour or two of sleep every night.

 

But no matter how badly he wants it, he can't compromise his identity. He can't compromise Aunt May. He loves her more than anyone in the world. 

 

“For the record, kid, you're not anywhere near joining the team yet," says Mr. Stark. "But there’s not a person on it you wouldn’t be able to trust with your life."

 

Peter's not sure whether to be disappointed, terrified, excited, or some unholy mix of the three. 

 

"But sure. If that’s what spins your web, sure.”

 

Peter lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Cool.”

 

“Now get off the phone and get moving. We’re meeting in an hour.”

 

“Wait, what, I — ”

 

“See you then.”

  
Peter holds the phone away from his ear, staring at it in disbelief. Holy crap. Holy _crap_ , this is really happening. He’s going to sort of, kind of, by some very loose and possibly not fully legal standard because of his status as minor _be training to be an Avenger_. Aside from the part where he is most _definitely_ going to fail at least one class this year, it doesn’t get much better than that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was an old story that I abandoned, and have now tweaked to fit the Homecoming timeline. SPOILERS AHEAD.

“You weren’t here last week, kid.” 

 

Peter chews on the inside of his cheek and immediately regrets it. Everything’s still a little raw. Like, the whole rapid healing thing definitely has its perks, but it’s also not a cure-all. He was straight up crushed by massive cement ceiling and pretty much felt every one of his ribs splinter so hard that they all took on individual personalities and started screaming at him at the same time. 

 

But that was six days ago. This is now. 

 

“Pete?” 

 

“Huh?” 

 

Steve tilts his head at him, looking concerned. Peter glances toward the floor and mumbles something so incoherent that it would make a linguist cry. 

 

He pulls himself together, kind of. “I … had …”  _ Detention. Near suspension. A weapons-dealing maniac hell-bent on killing me in various excruciating and, in retrospect, fairly inefficient if not ridiculously brutal manners _ . “Uh, midterms.” 

 

“Ah,” says Steve, raising his eyebrows like he’s not buying it. It looks a little protective, but not in that angry, I’m-not-your-dad-but-don’t-make-me-come-back-there-or-we’re-turning-the-self-driving-car-around kind of way that Mr. Stark sometimes does. More of an I-care-about-your-well-being-as-a-friend-even-if-you’re-clearly-full-of-hot-air kind of way that, if possible, makes Peter feel even worse. 

 

Peter nudges some invisible object on the sidewalk with his foot just to have an excuse to look down for a moment and collect himself. It’s surprisingly cold out for the first day of November. His aunt pushed him into a coat and a hat on his way out the door and now, standing at the mouth of the trail where he and Steve were going to use as the subject for their cameras today, he is grateful she thought to interfere. 

 

“How was the Homecoming dance?” 

 

Peter actually splutters. There is no better word for it than  _ splutter _ . He forgot he’d mentioned that to Steve in the first place, and he felt an embarrassing twinge that Steve even made enough space in his brain to remember what Peter was doing to bring it up at all. 

 

“It was — kind of a washout,” he says honestly. 

 

“Well, you’ve got two more tries, right? It’s only sophomore year.” 

 

Peter’s face burns. “I think I’m done with school dances for a bit.” 

 

Steve starts to walk down the trail, and Peter follows. “Why’s that?” he asks. Not like he has to, the way people who are older than Peter sometimes sound when they asked him questions — guidance counselors, teachers, Happy — but like he’s genuinely curious. 

 

“Just, uh — well. My date went a little haywire.” 

 

Steve surprises him by clapping him on the back. “Hey, don’t worry, Pete,” he says. “High school’s a wash for that kind of thing anyway.” 

 

_ Pete _ . Nobody else ever calls him that. Not his aunt, or his uncle when he was alive, or his parents, as far as he knew (and as far as he knew wasn’t very much). 

 

“How’s Tony doing?” Steve asks cautiously. 

 

Ah. This again. It’s strange, that Peter is technically no more than a nerdy civilian to Steve, that he has somehow between Tony and Steve become a child of divorce. Every so often Steve or Tony will oh-so-casually (but not casually at all) ask how the other one is doing, and Peter will give the same standard answer, wondering where exactly his loyalties are supposed to lie when he has looked up to them both since he was first self-aware. 

 

“He’s okay,” says Peter, the way he normally does. 

 

“Not working you too hard at the internship?” 

 

Peter blinks. Technically, yes. Tony’s been putting him through the paces, especially now that the suit has its Training Wheels programming permanently deactivated. He’s been rotating between members of the Avengers and Stark Industries staff members for training a few times a week — well, members of the Avengers still welcome at the Tower, at least — and usually by the end of it Peter feels like a rag doll. 

 

The thing is, they all know he’s young. Peter was very explicit with Tony that he didn’t want them knowing  _ how _ young, but it seems that his stupid post-pubescent voice has other ideas in mind. But judging on something Natasha said to him the other day in passing about grabbing a drink, it seems they all think he’s at least eighteen, and Peter is embarrassingly determined to keep it that way. He doesn’t want anybody going easy on him. 

 

“No, no, it’s all … manageable,” says Peter. Maybe because they’re alone out here or because he just recently got beaten within a centimeter of his life, but he’s feeling a little emboldened. “Do you guys talk at all, or …?” 

 

Steve blows out a breath, and Peter immediately regrets asking. He knows he’s not really Steve’s friend, the way he’s not really Tony’s or Happy’s or anyone over at the new headquarters upstate. It’s a bit of a sting to remind himself that, mutant spider powers and competence with technology aside, these people have no real reason to care about him or keep him in their orbit. 

 

To his surprise, though, Steve says, “It’s complicated. Yes and no. We had some … ”

 

“Disagreements?” Peter asks, remembering the concussion that resulted in Germany because of it all too well. 

 

Steve nods, and offers Peter a tight smile. He looks for a moment like he’s not going to say anything more, but then opens his mouth, hesitates for a beat, and says, “Actually, he was in touch with me last week.” 

 

“Oh?” 

 

“About … I don’t know how much you know about Spider-Man,” says Steve, apologetically. 

 

“Oh, uh, Spider-Man? I know lots about — I mean, I know Spider-Man,” Peter rambles. Shit. He hates lying. He is so, so, so terrible at lying. He holds up his camera all the way to his eyeball like a total goon to have a reason not to look at Steve. “I mean, I’ve, um, met him,” he says, clearing his throat. “He seems cool.” 

 

He’s suddenly terrified to look over at Steve, certain that he just sold himself out. But Steve is …. smirking? 

 

“Do you maybe have a little bit of a crush on Spider-Man?” he asks. 

 

Peter skips straight from laughter to wheezing, so violently that Steve almost looks concerned. “No, no, no,” he says, “uh … we’re friends. Spider-Man is, um — no, that is a strictly, uh, friend relationship.” 

 

Steve raises his eyebrows at him. “Okay.” 

 

“But, uh, what were you going to say about him?” says Peter, unable to resist his own gossip. 

 

He isn’t sure what he was hoping for — okay, okay, yes he is. He was hoping maybe Steve would keep that smirk on his face, or that maybe he would say something about, say, Spider-Man’s promise as an addition to the team, or that he’d like to meet him, or that he grew up with cartoon versions of him on his bedsheets (no, wait, that was Peter with Cap). Instead, though, Steve’s eyes brew with some kind of heaviness Peter has never seen in them before. 

 

“Well, that’s … why I was asking about Tony, actually. He was in touch with me recently. Last week.” 

 

“He was?” 

 

Selfishly, Peter wonders if he came up; he knows their communication level has been close to zilch, but he  _ does _ know that he was the exception when Tony set up this whole “mentoring a senior” thing in the first place. It wasn’t exactly an olive branch so much as, like, a twig (wow — maybe Aunt May was right about his self-confidence issues if he just compared himself to the lowliest form of shrubbery), but it was something. 

 

Steve isn’t looking into the lens of his camera anymore. 

 

“Something happened — with Spider-Man. He got in a tight spot, I guess. And Tony wasn’t in the city, and the only nearby remote suit was shut down in some airplane hangar, and he had no way to help him, so … so he called me.” 

 

Peter doesn’t mean for the words to come out so quietly, but he asks, “He did?” 

 

Steve is cringing. “I couldn’t help. I didn’t get to him in time. But I … Tony sent a heat seeking drone that found him at one point, and on my way over to it I could hear him just — screaming for help. And the sound of it, the pain he must have been in, I just — ”

 

Steve stops short, and it takes Peter a moment to realize that it is because all the blood has drained from his face. 

 

“Sorry, sorry, you don’t need to be hearing about this,” says Steve quickly. 

 

Peter tries to recover, badly. “Oh,” he says. And then nothing else follows, because, apparently, his same brain-to-mouth connection that is usually so painfully active has gone radio silent. 

 

He’s so embarrassed. Straight past embarrassed —  _ humiliated. _ Captain fucking America heard him crying and screaming for help like a little bitch. 

 

And the worst part is, all he’d wanted in that moment was someone to come get him. Tony. His aunt. His  _ uncle _ . His parents — 

 

Jesus. He’s thinking about it again. The excruciating few seconds when he’d stopped panicking and let himself go limp and really, truly believed that it was the end. That he’d see his parents soon. That he’d never even known them well enough to  _ want _ to. It didn’t bring him peace; if anything, it made the unknown quantity on the other side of getting his lungs crushed even more terrifying than before. 

 

“Pete, you OK?” 

 

“Huh? Oh, yeah, just, uh — that must’ve, um, sucked,” says Peter quickly, fidgeting with his camera. 

 

“Yeah,” says Steve, still watching him a little cautiously. “I hope he’s alright.” 

 

“He is,” Peter blurts.

 

Steve’s brows lift. “Yeah?” 

 

Peter nods vigorously. “Yeah, uh, I saw him. A little banged up, a little bruised, but, uh — he’s tough,” he says, feeling like an ass for it but not enough to stop himself. “You should — I mean, he’s a fan of yours. He said. So maybe … if you and Mr. Stark are on better terms, you could, uh … you know, train with him, or something?” 

 

To Peter’s immense relief, Steve actually seems to consider it. “He could use it, I think. He sounded really young.” 

 

“Did he? I dunno, I thought, like, early twenties, maybe mid,” says Peter, unconsciously puffing out his chest a little bit. 

 

Steve shrugs. “He needs someone who’s looking out for him,” he says. “Someone who’s actually  _ here _ .” 

 

“Or maybe, just, um, a friend,” says Peter. 

 

Steve smiles at him, and it’s weirdly blinding. Like Ned when he bumps into his desk light and it shines directly in Peter’s eyes. He feels his heart slam in an unfamiliar way that makes him suddenly grateful he isn’t wearing Tony’s suit, so Karen can’t make some comment about it and knock him even further off course. 

 

“Yeah,” says Steve. “You’re right. I’ll see if I can get in touch.” 

 

It takes every ounce of Peter’s self-control right then not to blurt out something stupid, like that he knows Spider-Man’s phone number, or can CC him on Spider-Man’s email, or, like, that he is actually Spider-Man. He’s almost smug at his ability to rein himself in — that is, until he realizes one crucial, stupid, fatal flaw in this little plan of his. 

 

He is Peter Parker. Spider-Man is also Peter Parker. And if Steve meets both of them, it’s only a matter of time before … 

 

“What does YOLO stand for again?” Steve asks a little helplessly, looking at a text he just received. “You Own … something something … Orange?” 

 

Okay. Maybe he wasn’t entirely screwed after all. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Sorry about Germany.”

 

Peter is standing in the middle of the gym when he hears Steve’s voice cut through the rhythm of the Fall Out Boy song that was blasting through his headphones. He nods his head to the side so Karen will turn it off. 

 

He’s so not ready for this. 

 

“You …  _ are _ the same Spider-Man from Germany, right?” asks Steve, cutting through the tension Peter just created by standing stiller than the statue of a molecule in the school courtyard the seniors kept defacing. “Queens, was it?” 

 

_ Shit shit shit shit shit shit shit.  _ Steve is going to know he’s Peter the moment he opens his big stupid mouth, suit or no suit. Because the thing is, Peter is not exactly the best at this whole superhero thing yet, and he’s an even  _ worse _ liar. 

 

A thought crosses his mind that would make mentor proud and literally every other human in his life cringe:  _ What would Tony Stark do? _

 

So Peter clears his throat, turns, and says with a confidence and cockiness that decidedly does not belong to him, “Maybe not, if you think there’s something to be sorry for,” he says. “Battle seemed pretty evenly-matched, if I recall.” 

 

He almost freezes the moment he says it, but he looks over and sees Steve, clad in his full-on Captain America glory, with a grin blooming on his face. 

 

“Huh. I seem to recall it a little differently.” 

 

Peter relaxes a bit. He has no idea where this whole bit is coming from — like, where the hell is this Peter when Flash is yelling “Penis Parker” with the gym teacher’s loudspeaker? — but Steve, apparently, is buying it. 

 

“Yeah, well. Old age will do that to ya,” says Peter, a grin of his own obscured behind his mask. 

 

Steve takes a few steps closer to him, holding the shield lazily enough that Peter doesn’t have to worry if there’s any lingering bad blood after their first costumed meeting. “Did Tony prep you on the old man jokes?” 

 

“Nah, I just have plenty in my arsenal,” says Peter. He is glad for a moment that his eyes are safely behind his mask, because he can’t think of that arsenal without unwittingly thinking of where it came from. It’s been over a year since Uncle Ben’s death, but sometimes it still punctures in unexpected moments. 

 

“What else you got in your arsenal?” Steve asks. If it were anybody other than America’s Golden Boy it might have sounded like a come on, but Steve seems genuinely and earnestly interested. “I have a feeling I only saw half of what you can do.” 

 

Peter’s face goes red. For all the saving of lives and doing of important things and being on the inside of Avengers Tower every other day, it is ridiculous how fast he is reduced to the most childish part of himself, the part of himself that still fanboys after Captain America and couldn’t even in his wildest cartoon renderings of actually meeting the man imagine a scenario like this. 

 

“To be honest,  _ I’m  _ not even fully sure of what’s in my arsenal yet,” says Peter, still managing to affect a cool tone beyond all statistical probability. “I don’t know how much Tony’s told you” — God, it feels weird to call him Tony, but what else can he do? — ”but I’m a little new to this whole … mutation turned superpowers game.” 

 

Steve nods. “Been there,” he says. 

 

Peter blows out a breathy laugh. “So I’ve heard.” 

 

“Anyway,” says Steve, “I just wanted to introduce myself. We got off on the wrong foot, and I wanted to make sure there wasn’t any — ”

 

“Oh, god, of course not,” Peter blurts, almost blowing the whole thing altogether. He forces himself to take a beat, which is hard to do when Steve’s eyebrows are raised at him like that, and says, “I mean — sorry. Nothing but respect, man.” 

 

_ Man?  _ He just addressed Captain fucking America the way he addresses classmates in the locker room. And the glass in this tower is so annoyingly bulletproof that he can’t even hurl himself out of it in embarrassment. Steve, luckily, seems unphased. 

 

“Listen, I’m going to start training here again — somewhat tentatively,” says Steve. “It’s been awhile since I worked on the basics. I thought maybe you’d benefit from a little practice, too.” 

 

_ A little practice? _ Peter is almost tempted to mouth off at the implication, because nobody has endured more  _ practice _ than he has in the last few weeks. Tony’s just about run him ragged — ”Even if you’re gonna be a champion for the little guy, you should be the best champion they’ve got,” he said, even as he was fretting over Peter’s impressive black eye (courtesy of Wanda). Sometimes at the end of a particularly grueling weekend session, Peter wonders if Tony ever processed that whole “I’m not ready to be an Avenger yet” thing at all.

 

“Yeah,” says Peter instead, because he’d be a maniac not to accept an offer to train alongside Captain America. “Definitely. I’m in.” 

 

“I hope you’d say that,” says Steve. “You seem like a good — ”

 

_ Please don’t say kid. Please don’t say kid. Please don’t say —  _

 

“Person,” says Steve. “A real asset to the team.” 

 

“Oh, I’m not an Avenger,” says Peter. And then, for the first time since he turned Tony’s offer down: “Yet.” 

 

* * *

 

 

“Any particular reason you’re lying to Rogers about being Spider-Man?” 

 

Peter nearly chokes on the Chex Mix he pilfered from the kitchen — the same brand that, he noticed, only started getting stocked in the Tower after Tony saw wrappers of it falling out of Peter’s backpack the day he was digging for his access card into the building. He looks up at Tony now, who is hovering in the doorway — so much for that sixth sense that Peter’s been relying on to tell him when he’s not alone — with a pointed look on his face. 

 

“I thought you hated Steve,” says Peter, dodging the question. 

 

Tony swipes a handful of Chex Mix from his bag, settling into the stool at the counter next to him. “Nice swerve,” he says. “But really, kid, what’s your deal here?” 

 

“I told you I don’t want the other Avengers to know who I am,” says Peter. 

 

“Yeah, well, Stars and Stripes already knows who you are.” 

 

“But not that I’m him. Or that he’s me. Or …” Aaaaand there’s a tailspin into an existential crisis he doesn’t need right now. Peter shakes his head. “I like being Steve’s friend.” 

 

“You think he won’t be your friend if he knows about the unitard? Because trust me, kid, he has a lot of friends with those.” 

 

“No, no,” says Peter, cracking a smile despite himself. “It’s not — I just — you won’t tell him, will you?” 

 

“We’re not exactly buddies these days, in case you missed that memo, so no,” says Tony. “But I do think that if you’re friends with him as Peter Parker and then friends with him as Arachnid Boy, it’s going to get awkward when he finds out down the line.” 

 

That’s just the thing, though. It’s  _ already _ awkward. The only way it wouldn’t have been awkward is if Peter fessed up right then and there the first time he met Steve, and there was no way in hell he was going to do that so close on the heels of what happened in Germany. 

 

And besides — Peter likes training with Steve. He likes it a lot. He likes that Steve doesn’t seem to pull his punches nearly as much anymore, and actually challenges him. He likes that Steve almost treats him like a peer here, and not some ragtag fifteen-year-old nerdy kid. And he likes  _ himself _ when he’s Spider-Man around Steve — the bolder, more brazen version of himself he’s adopted to keep Steve off his trail. If anything, it’s even helped him with the regular crime-fighting — people actually take him seriously when he brings that attitude to the streets. It feels like he’s kind of almost coming into his own. 

 

“Not if he never finds out,” says Peter, crunching a piece of his Chex Mix under his thumb. He shoves the crumbs and a few more pieces into his mouth. He’s never  _ not _ hungry these days. 

 

Tony sighs. “That is the most teenagery thing you’ve said since we met.” 

 

“I  _ am _ a teenager,” he says through his mouthful. 

 

“Trust me, kid. I remain well-aware.” Tony sighs in this way that Peter has already learned to dread, knowing that nothing good ever follows it. “Speaking of, are you going to show me that wrist of yours, or what?” 

 

Damn. Peter’s been nursing it since that car fell on him this morning (which, like,  _ uncalled _ for), and it’s practically half-healed, but leave it to Tony. He hesitates for a moment, but then Tony does that stern Don’t Make Me Do The Angry Dad Act face and Peter peels his sleeve from his arm. 

 

It’s actually a lot more mottled than Peter anticipates it will be, but he figures that’s a good thing. It means it’s healing. Tony, however, looks less than pleased. 

 

“Did you just train with this?” 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“Kid, we talked about this.” 

 

“You talked  _ at _ me about it,” Peter reminds him cheekily. 

 

Tony sighs, reaching forward to take a look at Peter’s wrist. He does a good job of not flinching, but Tony’s no idiot. “This is clearly broken. I know you've been at it with Nat all day. Did you just re-break it over and over? Honestly, Peter, a day off from training isn’t going to — ”

 

“What the hell happened to you?” 

 

Both Peter and Tony freeze at the sound of Steve’s voice in the hallway. Tony’s back is turned to Steve, but Peter is staring right at him, wide-eyed and a little horrified until he remembers that, praise be to whatever awkward god occasionally cuts him a break, he changed out of his suit before coming in here to stuff his face. 

 

Steve seems to remember how unwelcome he is in that moment, but his gaze is steady on Peter’s bruised arm. Peter glances at Tony, too stunned to think of a lie, but Tony’s eyes are hard and his mouth in an unyielding line. 

 

“Pete?” Steve prompts him. 

 

It immediately rubs Tony the wrong way — Peter sees the flicker of anger in his eyes, and before he can understand what it’s for, Tony snaps, “I can take care of my — 

 

Peter’s eyes turn into moons. 

 

_ “— intern _ just fine.” 

 

“It’s fine,” says Peter quickly, desperate to resolve the tension in the room. He yanks his sleeve back over his wrist. “It’s really fine — ”

 

“It’s not,” say Tony and Steve at the same time. Peter cringes. 

 

“I have to, um … calculus,” he stammers, grabbing the rest his Chex Mix and shoving an unholy amount of it into his mouth with his good hand. “Bye.” 

 

He can still feel the weight of their worried looks and the burn of their anger toward each other long after Happy corrals him into the car to drive him home. 

**Author's Note:**

> NOTING YET AGAIN in case people missed the tags: yes, this is going to be Peter/Steve, but this is a long-haul fic so there will be nothing underage happening (or I would have tagged it). #Bless!


End file.
